twenty-one
by ma-chellex
Summary: On his twenty-first birthday, Jack's life changes forever when his parents die in a car accident, and he's appointed as his little sister's legal guardian.
1. Chapter 1

i guess if you can't tell, i'm pretty terrible with updating things. but because this has literally been waiting in my drafts to be uploaded for quite a while now, i thought i would post it up. i haven't forgotten about my other stories-i'm just really swamped like... all the time. i actually have an exam today HAHA idk why i'm focusing on this instead. wellpsss.

_summary_: on his twenty-first birthday, his life changes forever when both his parents die in a car accident, and he's appointed as his sister's legal guardian

chapter 1

* * *

_his twenty-first birthday_

The day he turns twenty-one is the biggest turning point of his life.

It's only supposed to be a party-a party of drinks and loud music and friends and fun, of slovenly nights and mornings you can't remember. Just a party. Maybe the biggest party. The most remembered-but not in the way wanted.

"Wooh! Twenty-one!" he shouts in a series of segmented slurs. He sloppily pours out a series of shots, tilting the glass bottle until the liquor spills across rows of glasses and plastic countertop. He slams it back against the counter as he shouts for everyone to grab a shot glass. It's his twenty-first: the one to commemorate it all. "Shot? Shot? Everyone? Ready?"

"How many are you at?" Hiccup slurs out as he grabs one for himself and one for his girlfriend. His arm takes her in closer although the amount of people in their small apartment is already pushing them together. The two clink shot glasses before turning their attention to Jack.

"Twenty-one!"

"To twenty-one!" Hiccup turns to everyone. "It's his twenty-first shot! Everyone take a shot!"

The crowd cheers, the collateral noise louder than the blasting bass.

Merida spots her best friend amongst the crowd, her blonde hair peeking out from underneath the mass of dark colors and flashing lights. She lifts her hand and signals to the shot glass. "Punz!"

Rapunzel turns at the sound of her name, her eyes searching for the source of the Scottish twang. When she spots her, she makes her way through the crowd, shoving aside drunk people and stepping between toes to get to her destination. She feels hands feel her up from behind and grimaces. Her tiny hands gently peel sticky fingers away as she pushes herself further through the crowd. When she arrives, Merida grabs her by the arm and pulls her into a hug.

The smell of alcohol envelops her like a blanket. Merida's breath smells sweetly blanched, whiffing by her as she giddily laughs and pulls away. She tugs on her pale arm and takes her to the counter full of shots, picking one up as an offering. "Where have you been? You disappeared earlier!"

Rapunzel smiles. "I went to the bathroom. Where have you been?"

"Celebrating Jack's twenty-first shot! Jack's twenty-one! Have you met Jack yet? Thanks for being my designated driver by the way," Merida says, her words tumbling incoherently out of her mouth.

"Um—we've met briefly," Rapunzel laughs as she holds a steady hand up for her friend.

"Did you want a shot?"

"No, that's okay," Rapunzel declines politely, holding the rim with the tips of her fingers and placing it back on the counter. She's designated driver, after all. She smiles as she watches Merida scream at the prospect of another shot and another clink, her eyes scanning the crowd of faces that are quite unfamiliar to her.

"Rapunzel, right?"

She turns her head to the side, catches sight of the slightly familiar white grin and blue eyes. His words are slightly garbled and incomprehensive even though he's only said a whole of two words to her. Still, even that is a mess in his mouth, one that he is having trouble swallowing. Despite this, she's surprised he even remembers her name. They've only ever talked on occasion.

She smiles. "Hi, Jack. Happy birthday."

"Take a shot for me! It's my birthday! I'm twenty-one," he slurs as he takes her by the shoulder, squeezing. He presses a slovenly kiss against her forehead. She flushes, but she knows with this drunken stranger, there is no meaning of intimacy behind something so sloppy.

"So I've noticed," she laughs. "But no thanks."

He squeezes her shoulder. "That's alright. Hey, hey! You can cheer me on without drinking! Everyone! Shot? Are you guys ready for a shot?"

Rapunzel watches silently underneath his soft grip as screams are called out, congratulatory birthday salutations, and spouts of laughter. It is a noisy mixture of all sorts of sounds and somewhere in there, she can hear a meek attempt at a birthday song, and she laughs along because it is his birthday, and there is not much else to do. Her eyes follow their hands up in the air to the clink of the glass against the counter before everyone downs the shot, slamming the glass back onto the plastic.

Then he gets the phone call.

His hand reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. Rapunzel can feel his heavy weight on her shoulder, yet for some reason, she doesn't quite mind. Instead, she helps him keep himself steady as he leans on her for mild support.

As he answers, he knocks his head against hers, a small tap, a grin soliciting between his lips. She flushes but can only smile in response. His breath smells sweet like alcohol, a scent she has been adjusting to since she's gotten there.

His voice is low when he answers. "Hello?"

It is in that split second that she watches Jack sober up immediately, the merriness in his eyes and the smile on his lips dissipating with each passing second. His back straightens up, his fingers pressing tightly against his phone, white with pressure.

"Jack? Are you okay?" she can't help but ask.

He shuts his eyes, his hand reaching out to her for support, gripping her shoulder. Then, "I'm sorry—you have to… you have to have the wrong number—they can't…" He pauses. Then quietly, she almost doesn't hear him, "I'll… Yeah. I'll be there."

He hangs up his phone. His eyes glaze over hers for a minute, and she doesn't know what to do, where to put her eyes, her body, if he even wants her standing there. Then, "Rapunzel… you're sober, right?"

She nods slowly.

"Would it… would it be too much of a hassle to ask you… to drive me somewhere?"

Before she can think twice, her keys are in her hands, and the two are out the door.

* * *

_on twenty-first street and nueces drive_

Rapunzel watches from inside her car, where the warmth from the running engine layers around her tiny body. Her eyes follow his pale skin, bleached against the darkness, splattered with flashes of red and blue. He stands awkwardly with his hands shoved into his pockets, his eyes closed momentarily, soaking in the cool, piercing wind and letting it sober his twenty-one shots of alcohol.

The drive in the car was slightly off, rendering tense spurts of silence. During the ride, he had pressed his forehead against the windowpane, his breathing shallow, his fists clenching. She notices but doesn't say a word, doesn't need to know what he needs, why they had ditched the party, only knows that he must reach his destination as soon as possible.

Jack had told Hiccup he had to leave, welcomed Merida to stay the night since he was taking her designated driver away.

The party went on.

Nothing more had been said.

The implication to Hiccup was that the two were going to hit it off.

It was anything but.

Rapunzel rolls down her window just slightly, breathing in the breath of cool air as it swishes by her. The mixture of her car's engine and the wind outside inside her tiny car sends a shiver down her spine, and she pulls her sleeves closer to her hands, wrapping the ends around her fingers. Her head leans back against the seat, turns to the side, continues to watch.

Red and blue dances merrily around her, but it is anything but merry. She doesn't quite understand what's going on, only knows that there has been a major car accident. She had spotted it before she had spotted the prideful colors, one car burned to its core, leaving only metal framework in its remains.

He doesn't say anything about it, merely leaves the car and tells her to stay put.

She doesn't ask.

It is not her business to know.

Her eyes follow him as he trails behind an officer to an ambulance where a small girl sits. She is just barely injured, cuts along the calves of her legs and red splotches along the edge of her face. Jack doesn't waste a second, pulls her into a tight hug, careful to avoid all injuries. He does not cry, only strokes her hair lovingly as she falls into his arms.

He comes back twelve minutes later, the girl trailing behind him, grip tightening on his.

She had fallen asleep within that time frame and jerks herself awake when the door opens, allowing the cool wind to brush violently against her.

"Hi," she whispers softly.

He gives her a small smile, but she knows it means nothing. Not there. Not now. "This is my sister. Emma, this is Rapunzel."

The girl waves, but her eyes are dead, weary, tired. Cuts run along the side of her face and across her legs, skin colored wraps bandaged across her body, her pallid skin colored with a palette of purple and blues. She wants to ask how she is, but knows the answer before she speaks. The girl is the only one in the car and not needed at the hospital. That, alone, should be enough to give her the story of the night.

So Rapunzel only nods. She doesn't make an effort to speak as Emma scoots herself in the backseat, buckling in. There is no need for small talk. There is no want for it either.

Jack curses as he looks at the time. It is two thirty in the morning, and he knows the party is still raging on at home. The closest place is his parents', but he refuses to go there, not after the verdict of the night.

"My place is open," Rapunzel offers. She's not sure if he'll take it or if he'd rather just pay for a hotel room. This offer of kindness from a stranger—she wonders if he thinks it will be worth it to open his life so easily to hers. But she has already witnessed half of it. She does not mind seeing the rest. "Merida is at… yours. Emma can take my room."

Jack hesitates to answer. But when he sees the fatigue in his sister's eyes, he knows he should not decline.

"Okay," he says softly. His eyes meet hers. "Thanks."

* * *

_grand marc apartment, apt #210_

"It's a little messy," she apologizes as she opens the door to let them in, her mind raking through her thoughts to see if there is anything she needs to clear out of sight. But she can't think of a single thing as she turns the knob. Shoot. Oh, well, she decides. If Jack's let her seen a small portion of his personal life, there is nothing more personal she can offer in comparison.

"It's fine," he says, his little sister's sleepy body curled in his arms. "Where is your room?"

"Down the hall, first door on the right."

When he emerges from the hall, she offers him a cup of coffee. "I think you need it."

He takes it without saying a word but doesn't move to find room for himself. Instead, he stands, watching as she bustles back and forth to find blankets and pillows to offer him, to set up a place for him to sleep on the futon in the living room. The warmth emanating from the porcelain cup fills his body, but a chill still resounds. He has no idea what he is doing there, in this stranger's house on his twenty-first birthday with his little sister in the other room.

How had… things gotten so out of hand?

He stops himself, reminds himself that this is not the time and place to think about it. He's not ready for tears—not in front of her. Not in front of anyone.

"Do you need to shower?"

Jack blinks. Forgets he is not alone for a second. Forgets what she had even asked. "What?"

She smiles. "Would you like to shower? You must feel a little gross. I think I have a shirt you can borrow or something—school shirts, so I'm sure you can fit into them."

He's not quite in the mood to dictate his actions. So he lets her do it for him. "Sure," he says, shrugging, before he sets down his cup of coffee.

The steam in the bathroom clears his mind a little bit. The warm water running down his body is soothing, cleansing him of sticky liquor and sweat that has been sitting there since the phone call despite the fact that the weather is far from hot and humid. Images flash through his mind as he leans his naked body against the cold tile—red and blue, smoldering smoke, his sister's tear-stained face.

_"Are you her relative? Jack Frost?" the officer asks when he sees him. "I'm Officer Patterson. We spoke on the phone."_

_"Yes, that's me." He stops short. "And… what you said about my parents—"_

_Jack stops speaking the minute he sees the change in the man's face. A face of pity, of sorrow for the children who have lost more than they should have in just a few seconds. "I'll need you to identify their bodies, but… I'm sorry, kid. It was instantaneous."_

_He doesn't need the man to say sorry. He doesn't need the man to say anything_.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Rapunzel is sitting on the futon, dozing off. She has cleaned herself up though there was probably not much to clean off to begin with. Her hair is wet, a towel wrapped around her neck to avoid it from soaking through her clothes. He wonders why she's been as nice to him as she has been—but stops because it doesn't matter the reason. He's just thankful she had been there sober while he was only starting to sober up himself.

"Rapunzel," he says gently as he knocks her on the head.

Her eyelids flutter before she jerks herself upward. "Sorry."

He laughs. He's amazed he can even laugh. "Don't be sorry. Where are you sleeping?"

"I'm—" she stops, pauses as she scrunches her tired eyes together. He can tell she hasn't thought about this, has only thought about his and his sister's comfort but not herself. He can't help but feel quite gifted, for having someone conveniently around who is so giving without asking for much in return. She laughs. "It doesn't matter, I guess. I don't… think Merida would mind me sleeping in her bed… but I guess I'd prefer permission…"

"Take the futon—I can sleep on the floor."

Her eyes grow wide. "No. You're the guest. I would never do that."

"Rapunzel—"

"Even if you try to argue with me, I would still sleep on the floor. It's fine, Jack. Take the futon. You need it more than I do, I think…" her voice is soft as she averts her eyes. Then she stands up abruptly, brushes herself off, and gives him a weak smile before heading to the hallway. "It's fine."

He's silent as he watches her walk away, knows that arguing is quite futile. "Thanks," he says suddenly. Because he realizes he has not offered enough for everything she has done for him.

She turns. "It's just a futon."

He smiles, shakes his head. "For… everything, Rapunzel. You know you didn't have to help me at all—"

She laughs softly. "What are you talking about? Don't talk like that. It's what anyone would do."

"But—"

"Jack, stop," she says, her voice low and comforting. She offers him a small smile, wraps her arms around herself tightly, her bright eyes watching him under fatigued lids. "It's the right thing for any decent human to do. I wasn't going to let you go drunk or not have a place to stay for the night. So don't worry about it. Worry about yourself first. Please. I'll be in Mer's room, so… if you need me, at all, don't hesitate. I'm here. Even if… you just need to talk to anyone. I'm here."

He's tense when she turns her back on him and retreats into her roommate's room. He unclenches his fist, hadn't even realized how nervous and frightened he'd been hearing her talk like that, an offering of comfort when he doesn't know what comfort even is. But he is thankful she won't ask any questions because he knows he's not ready for that.

Honestly, he's not ready for anything.

He's only twenty-one.

He sits down and thinks that one again.

Only twenty-one.

_Just_ twenty-one.

How did life get so complicated... so quickly?

"Fuck," he whistles lowly to himself before settling himself on the futon. Fuck. Fuck is right.


	2. Chapter 2

oh hi chapter 2 is out so fast i'm too impatient to wait to update, luls .-.

chapter 2

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of tears.

They're not his own.

He removes the covers immediately but staggers as he forces himself up from the futon, weariness dragging him down with every movement, every muscle in his body tightening, tensing like a weight he only wishes could disappear. His hand rubs against his eyes and then his temple as he makes his way down the hall, knows somewhere inside of him that it's coming from his sister.

Nightmares or something. It must be. She had witnessed everything.

He stops when he hears another voice, one that's not hers.

_Rapunzel_.

He leans against the wall, sinks to the floor, and listens as her soothing voice calms Emma's tears. He's glad she's there. He's not quite sure how he'd comfort Emma. He's never been really good with words, not in the way he knows is needed. Her voice is reassuring, soft and delicate like its own lullaby, hushing over all sounds of nightmares, and he can't help but start to doze off as it flows through his ears.

He wakes up when the door opens.

He can see the surprise etched into her face when she sees him on the ground. Quietly, she shuts the door behind her, and he knows with this one gesture that his sister is safely asleep.

Rapunzel doesn't say anything, merely offers a smile and a hand to help him up.

He knocks his head against hers, and she takes this in the only way she knows it—a thanks, a hello, a smile.

And without thinking, she wraps her arms around his body, and he knows in this simple moment that his sister has said more than he has hoped to let her know about, that she knows more than just his sadness but everything around it. And in that blanket of warmth, his entire body crumbles within her arms, his tears collapsing in the golden spool of her hair.

Together, they sink to the floor, his body shaking in heavy sobs, his breathing shallow and uneven. And all she can do, all she knows how to do, is whisper softly in his ears, words of nothing but feel like everything. Her hands strum through the strands of his hair, her touch like poetry waiting to be written-passionate but tentative, her voice like a song he's heard a million times but knows he'll never get tired of hearing. He can feel the hollow of her bones through her cold skin, but everything-everything about her is _so_ warm.

They stay like that for a while—he doesn't know how long.

But he feels safe simply being in her arms.

There is something about her, a presence he cannot deny, something that makes him feel so good and welcomed.

"Sleep next to me," he whispers, his voice hoarse. He doesn't know why he feels he needs to ask this, but knows there is this sudden need for her warmth and her presence to be near him before he falls apart completely. "Please."

She hesitates. "I don't think that's the smartest idea. We don't really know each other that well."

"I would never hurt you," he says immediately, "if that's what you're scared of."

"I'm not," she says, her voice clear, her eyes bright. "But… I don't think you're in the right mind to think correctly."

"I'm not drunk. Not anymore."

"I know," she says softly. "But you're sad. And that's even worse. Go to sleep, Jack. I'll be right around the corner."

He feels crestfallen. He doesn't know why.

She leans in and kisses him softly at the corner of his lips before pulling herself away, smiling. "Go to sleep. I'm right around the corner."

All he knows is the warmth that she emanates—he wants it. And he wants it forever.

But maybe he's just sad. Just like she said.

* * *

_21 o'clock_

He sleeps the entire day away. It's not until she wakes him up that he realizes how long he has been asleep. His hand raises to his face, rubs down his skin until his eyes adjust to the bright yellow light in the room.

"What time is it?"

"Around nine PM," she says, cleaning a pair of dishes before wiping her hand with a rag. "Do you want me to take you back to your apartment?"

He closes his eyes momentarily, covering it with the back of his hand. He needs to go home… _home_, home. To his parents'. Needs to get Emma's stuff, his stuff, their stuff—clean things out. He doesn't even know what to do, now that his parents are gone and his sister's life is in his hands. He needs to talk to an attorney or… or _something_.

His life is a mess.

Everything is a mess.

And his head fucking hurts like hell.

He groans.

"I don't know. Where's Emma?"

"She's in my room. We were talking about novels, and I gave her some to read. She's a really bright girl," Rapunzel says with a smile as she waltzes back into the living room with a cup of water. "How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts," he says as he pulls himself up, takes her offering from her tiny fingers. Her other hand pops open, an aspirin in the center of her palm. He smiles weakly and takes the two together, swallowing it in one quick gulp. "Thanks."

"I had a feeling you might have a hangover. Twenty-one shots and all."

He shakes his head, smiles. "Some bits of last night are a bit unclear, but… I think I remember everything."

"How could you not?" she says softly. Then, "Is there anywhere you want me to take you?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Not… not now. I just need a little bit of time to think right now. There's just…" He sighs, pausing, meets her eyes. "Too much and only one of me. With… my sister… my parents… Shit."

She takes a hold of his hand, tightens in hopes that it will offer a sense of comfort. "Take your time. There's only so much you can do."

"I have to look at my parents' will."

"Don't force yourself until you feel ready."

"And I have to clean their house and get my sister's stuff—I don't even know where she'll live. Fuck," he whistles between his teeth, leans his head back as he goes through the list of things he knows have now just become his responsibilities. He is snapped back to reality when her tiny hands wrap around his cheeks, and before he knows it, her face is an inch away from his, her determined eyes capturing his in an intense gaze.

"You're going to be okay," she says, her voice full of purpose, each word solid and clear. "It's going to be okay, Jack."

He sits there for a bit, doesn't retract his gaze from her glorious eyes, only watches her cheeks color pink and puff with a willpower he does not have. Her hands are warm against his cheeks, and there is something inviting about her intimacy, the closeness between them. He takes those few seconds to scan her face, something he's never really done before—from her button nose to her pouty lips. And he doesn't know why he's never saw attraction before because now all he wants to do is kiss the hell out of her.

He thinks he wants to kiss her.

But he's not sure if she'll be okay with it.

So he doesn't.

"Thanks," he murmurs instead. Because he is thankful. Because he wouldn't be here if it weren't for her. Because there are only so many words he can give that are worth his voice. Because… because he knows, in his heart, that she's right.

She narrows her eyes. But then drops her hands. "I hope you mean that."

"I do."

"Then talk to your sister," she says. "She needs you more now than ever."

And he looks up at her. And he is glad he hasn't kissed her. Because she is more than just the romantic interest in this point of his life, because she is more than just being sexualized into nothing more than a girl to kiss.

Because she is, quite frankly, the only thing that is keeping him moving in the right direction.

And the last thing he should be doing is merging his own vulnerability with her kindness for something as cold-hearted as lust.

* * *

_on December 21st_

She only had one black jacket, and it is thin and waterproof but not warm or cozy in any way. Still, she wears it because it is the only black jacket she has. When the sky opens up and pours tears that she does not know how to offer, she is somewhat glad that her jacket is, at least, waterproof and that she has an umbrella at her side.

Her fingers feel numb as it tightens around the handle, and she curses to herself because she should have been smart enough to put on a pair of mittens or something. When she lifts it up into the sky, her eyes catch sight of him, his face droopy, his eyes blank.

His little sister stands at his side as he makes conversation with the people around him, as they send the two siblings their condolences, but it is obvious to any eye that he would like to be anywhere but there, mourn anywhere but here.

He looks up, and they meet each other's eyes. She waves and smiles somberly.

He nods before turning back to the person he's speaking to. At first she thinks that is the end of their conversation, but then he holds up his hand, gives the man a firm shake before ushering his little sister and himself over to her.

"Rapunzel," he says, his voice soft and slightly breathless, as if he is struggling from the cold and amazed she is there all at the same time.

"Hello." She moves so that her umbrella covers the three of them. "Hi, Emma."

Emma lifts her head, and through her teary eyes, she can make out a smile across her lips. "Hi, Punz."

"Punz?" he questions.

"She said I could call her that."

"It's a nickname," Rapunzel explains hastily. "For people who think 'Rapunzel' is a mouthful."

He nods silently, like he understands. Then quietly, she almost doesn't hear it—"I like your name."

She flushes. "Thanks."

"I didn't know you were coming." He lifts his head, his eyes questioning, searching for some sort of answer that he can't seem to find.

"Of course I came," she says, her voice soft. "Why wouldn't I?"

He shrugs. "Because… because you were right. We don't really know each other all that much."

"It's your parents' funeral," she says. "I don't have to know anyone to mourn their death, do I?"

He squeezes his eyes shut. Then opens. "No. I guess not."

"Do you have an umbrella?"

He shakes his head.

She grabs his empty hand, presses the hilt into his palm, and closes his fingers around it. "Here. You're going to need this more than I do."

"Rapunzel," he says warily as he attempts to hand it back.

She quickly sidesteps his grasp, stepping out from underneath its shadowed shelter and into the drizzling rain. She smiles. "Don't worry about it. Think about yourself for a change."

"I think I should be saying the same thing to you," he says dryly.

She flashes him a grin and then turns to his little sister, pulling her into a quick and warm hug. "Take care of your brother for me. Make sure he eats and sleeps and goes to school."

Emma smiles. "Of course."

Jack glares. "You act like you're about to disappear forever."

"Well, we're not really friends, right? I pretty much will be out of your life except for the occasional few," she replies carefully. She lifts her head, her eyes searching his face for any sign of acknowledgment that he should care otherwise. But Jack is Jack, and all she sees is a frown across his face. She steps back into the rain, tucks her two hands into the pockets of her jacket, before gracing the somber evening with a grin. "Take care of yourself, Jack."

"Yeah," he replies after a minute, after she waves to him goodbye and walks away from him for what he believes could be forever. His voice struggles to say anything at all, struggling for words he knows are there. "You too."

But this, he says too late. For she is already gone.

_twenty-one seconds later_

Jack cannot help himself but stare at her when she walks away, her hands tucked away in her pockets, her eyes staring at the rain above before shifting to her car, parked silently in the corner of the lot. Before he knows it, she has driven off—but he doesn't know why he cares so much.

His eyes turn back to the crowd around him. A lot full of strangers, people bidding their condolences, but who, he wonders, actually really gives a damn. He wonders, even, how much Rapunzel gives a damn.

"Do you like her?"

His sister's voice brings him back to reality, his head snapping to the side, turning to the sound of her voice.

Then he narrows his eyes, his voice a little defensive. "Is that really so important right now?"

She shrugs, looks out at their lack of family and friends, most who had only stayed for the eulogy and bid their goodbyes soon after. Their family is lacking, consisting of a great uncle on one side in Russia and a cousin who lives in Australia—both unable to make their presence. He recognizes a few familiar faces from around the neighborhood and a few of Emma's school friends. All keep their distance, as if they say anything more, they will watch the two siblings crumble to the ground.

It's not really like that though. He knows it should be, that the two of them should be crying their hearts out.

But they had. They had cried when they had claimed their bodies. They had cried in Rapunzel's apartment. They had cried, even, when they had only just begun packing away their parents' belongings.

But in the sense of death within this somber and forsaken land, they cannot cry. Not with strangers abound, asking them questions they don't want to answer. They hear the death but do not want to acknowledge the sound.

He knows Emma wants to. He can see it in her eyes. But she refuses to let it out, not in this place, not in these circumstances. Her tears will shed in the right time and place.

"Do you?"

He shrugs, shakes his head slowly. "Emma, my non-existent love life doesn't really need to be discussed at our parents' funeral."

Emma remains quiet, lifts her head to look at the sky. Then quietly, "Well, it's easier."

"Easier…" he echoes, sounding out the word with his mouth, scrunching his face, scrutinizing hers.

"Mom and Dad… It's just not…" he watches as she struggles to get another word out, but he cuts her off before she can. Because he can tell she's getting uncomfortable, that this here and now is not the time and place.

"I think Rapunzel is nice."

Relief floods her face, shines in her big brown eyes, as he invites her into a conversation that sidesteps the one she desperately wants to avoid. "Nice?"

"But anyone can be nice. Everyone should be nice. That doesn't mean a thing, though."

"You think Rapunzel is… nice."

"Quite friendly."

"But you don't like her."

"I think," he says, pausing to make sure he gets the right words out, "I think right now is not the right time to like anyone. It would… just be me taking advantage of pity or her taking advantage of vulnerability. I would be a vulnerable guy who needs a nice girl and conveniently falls for the girl who just happens to be the nicest he can find in that moment."

"Wouldn't that be the right moment?"

He shakes his head. "Not the right moment. Just a moment of convenience."

She shakes her head at him, smirking. "I don't believe that. Any moment can be the right moment, even if it's a moment of convenience."

"She's just a nice girl," he protests.

"Yeah, that you like," she sings.

"Why—why am I even taking advice from you, you little munchkin?" Jack argues, nudging her with his elbow before ruffling her hair. She giggles as she nudges him back, and it has been quite some time since the two have been comfortable like the old days. He shakes his head in disbelief. "Twelve-years-old, and you're already trying to tell me how to live my life."

"Not your_ life_—just your love life. Plus, I like Punz. She's cool."

"She is," he says softly, smiling. "But that doesn't mean anything."

She laughs, cocking her head to the side, her lips quirking upwards. "We'll see."

"Let's just take life one step at a time."


	3. Chapter 3

okayla~~ here is chapter 3

chapter 3

* * *

_21 rio, apartment #100_

Splattered across the wooden table are piles of papers, clipped with butterflies and packed in manila envelopes, stuffed in file folders and some not at all. From birth certificates to school transcripts, from tax forms to bills upon bills upon bills—he flips through the thin sheets, his hands shoveling them, categorizing them where he believes they should belong. The numbers begin to blur together until he cannot recognize the difference between a two and an eight, until his eyes feel like a stapler has pinned them shut.

A cup of coffee settles in front of him, the clink against the wood lifting his attention to meet concerning, squinted eyes.

"Hey," Jack greets, his voice dry and rough against the back of his throat. He clears it before grabbing the cup. "Thanks."

"At this rate, you'll never have to dye your hair again," Hiccup jokes, the tone of his voice snarky as he settles into the seat at the other side of the kitchen table. But Jack notices the way the wrinkles around his eyes refuse to wash away, can see them brim with worry.

"Funny," he says instead, rolling his eyes. "Can you pass me that stapler?"

Hiccup follows his request and then moves his hand to rub over his growing stubble. "How are things coming along?"

Jack staples some forms together before stuffing them into a folder. Then leans back against his chair and lets his eyes drift shut. "I don't know. It's not... It's not like it's black and white, you know? Things are going to be rough, but..." his eyes open, scanning the piles of documents before him, "things are also going to be okay."

"Yeah?"

Jack nods, his chair hilting in place as he stabilizes himself. His shoulders lean forward, elbows pressing against the table.

Hiccup only watches, doesn't say a word.

"I got legal counseling to look over the will. And..." he takes a deep breath but then smiles, "it's settled. I'm Emma's legal guardian, so I don't have to worry about sending her off to Russia or Australia or anything. There's just a lot of paperwork that has to be filed. And my parents had set up a trust fund in my name to help pay for both of our college tuitions although the guy said our financial aid would go up anyway. Their debts are pretty clear—the only major thing I have to worry about is... well, the house. It has to go."

Hiccup raises a brow, his hands cupping his own cup of coffee. "You're going to sell the house?"

"I have to. I can't afford to pay off the mortgage. We'd go in debt if I tried keeping it if we're looking at my income, and I only make about eleven dollars an hour." As he says this, he realizes and understands that eleven dollars an hour is hardly even enough to provide for the both of them. Plus, he's got rent to pay, food to put on the table. Despite the fact that his parents have set up a fund for the two of them to go to college and have savings to provide for their future, he knows it will still not be enough.

Not when he is only making eleven dollars an hour.

Hiccup is quiet, leans forward so that he handles the cup of coffee between the palms of his hands, cradled between his shaky knees. He lifts his head to meet Jack's gaze. "You sure you can handle her and school? That's… that's a lot of work. Taking care of a kid… It's not that easy. You know that, right?"

His voice is somber. "What choice do I have?"

"I mean—what about taking her to school?"

"There's a bus for that."

"You're going to let her take the city bus? The school bus doesn't route this way. You know that, bud. And another thing—are you going to let her continue the same school? It's so far away now that she's living near your college campus."

"I can't take her away from her friends. Other than me... they're all... they're all she has."

"But will the administration consider that as an option?" Hiccup sighs, shaking his head slowly. "There are too many factors, Jack. Are you sure this is the right choice?"

"I don't have any other choice. And I'm not dropping out of school," he replies with determination. "You're my best friend, dude. I'm not going to ask you to help me out—this is my responsibility. But I need your support while she's here. And at the end of the year, when our lease is over, Emma and I will move out and find another place to live."

"I got it," Hiccup says quietly. "I'm sorry. I'm just... I'm worried about you, bud. And I'm your best friend—I refuse to tip toe around everything. I know you don't want to talk about your parents, but this—this is something that's reality. It has to be discussed."

"I know it's a lot, okay? I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how to take care of a kid—I don't know anything. But all I can do… is try, right?" He closes his eyes momentarily and then smiles softly. "Look, dude—thanks. I know… you mean well."

He doesn't say what he's thankful for, but he knows that his best friend recognizes his gratitude—for not mentioning the things that Jack doesn't want to be mentioned, for providing him with the harsh truth of reality instead of telling him sorry, for... for being his best friend. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Hiccup leans forward, clinks their mugs together. The two take a sip as if they are drinking bottles of beer when it is really just caffeinated coffee. "It's going to work out. I'm sorry for making you doubt that."

He grins. "It's okay. It's what best friends do."

* * *

_21 minutes later_

When Jack comes in later to bid her goodnight, she is already tucked underneath her covers. She pulls it back just slightly when she sees his shadows, turns to the side to turn on her lamp, and smiles softly at him.

"Hey, munchkin," he greets softly as he settles on the edge of her bed. "You still up?"

She nods. "I heard you talking with Hiccup."

He raises his eyebrows. "You did?"

She fiddles with the edge of the blanket in her hands—hers, not his because he had been gracious enough to help her move some of her belongings out of her box and set herself up in his room—twisting the corner with her finger until the words feel like they deserve to stumble out of her mouth, a little straggly with the tears she has been struggling to keep inside.

"Are you… are you really going to sell the house?"

His eyes widen with surprise. She's sure, of all questions, he hadn't expected that one. There are other worries she should be worried about—she knows this. But their parents' house is her life. That's where she grew up—that's where _they_ grew up. How could she let that go so easily?

"It's just…" she forces herself to continue, her voice falling into a thin whisper, "that… it's Mom and Dad's… and well… we grew up there."

Jack scoots himself closer, tucking her blanket around her thin body, brushing back her hair—the way he used to when they were younger, when she was only three and he, twelve. He was a good brother then. But then she thinks, he's always been a good brother, nine years older and always making sure she was only two steps behind so that he could pull her back up if she ever tripped and fell. "Emma, it's not that simple. Of course I'd want to keep the house, but… I can't afford to pay it off. It would be in the best interest for both of us to sell it."

She starts to cry. "It's just—we don't have anything left—what about Mom and Dad? Are you just going to forget them that easily?"

He stiffens. "Why would you think that?"

"Because—because you're selling their house! You're putting away their stuff! You're hiding their memories!"

His voice grows quiet, soothing in a way she doesn't quite ever remember. "Hey, munchkin. Mom and Dad—they live in here," he says, patting his heart, crossing it with an 'x,' "not in all these… things. Just because we don't have the actual, physical part doesn't mean we don't care—that I don't care. Our memories are in our heart and our brain. You have to remember that. They're not going to disappear that easily. Not if you don't let them."

He hesitates when she doesn't respond, when she continues to cry. It is more than the house that she's worried about when he responds—she has more fears than she's ever realized. She wonders how her life has so easily crumbled before her eyes, and now she feels so lost, like she has no place she belongs. The way her brother's best friend had spoken... it was as if she was not only ruining her life but her brother's as well. How could it be possible that she could be doing both without even making a single step?

"Emma—"

"Am I… am I a burden to you? Am I making your life harder? Do you even want me around?" she finds herself bursting.

"Of course," he says immediately with no hesitation. "You're my little sister, my stupid munchkin."

"You and Hiccup both said that your life is going to be—going to be hard."

"Well, of course it's going to be hard. Sometimes, life throws you curves. And you gotta adjust. This is—Mom and Dad's death…" his breathing grows a little shallow, and she realizes their death is something that has taken a toll on him, one he finds harder than even herself to share. And now that she thinks of it—she hasn't heard him speak of it at all. Not in the way one would expect. But he forces himself to resume, swallows thickly, and continues to speak. "It's hard. For the both of us. And I miss them, and I wish, of course, just as much as you, that it didn't happen. Of course I wish that, Emma. Because life would be easier with them here. Because I miss them, and I love them, and I would never ask for either of us to grow up any further without our parents.

He inhales and exhales deeply, trying to find the right words to say. She has slowly dried her tears watching him.

"Of course… it would be best for them to have lived. But shit happens, Em. And now we're both stuck in this pit trying to figure out what to do. I don't know how to raise you. I don't know how to raise anyone. I'm only twenty-one. So it's going to be hard—for the both of us. But I would never wish for you to go anywhere else. I'm very… very grateful that Mom and Dad appointed me as your guardian, even if it's going to be hell, even if, in the future, you're going to annoy the heck out of me. I mean, what are sisters and brothers for? And things are going to change a lot—because I'm going to be more than just your brother—I'm going to be your _guardian…_ almost, even, your parent.

"But, it would kill me even more if they had sent you to foster care or with some stranger or hell—if they had sent you off to Uncle North or Aster, I would still throw a fit because you'd be a whole sea away. So don't think you're a burden, Emma. You're my kid sister. I would never want it otherwise." He ruffles her hair, watching as she sniffles up her sobs. He smiles, his grin just slightly crooked. "I love you. And even if you'll be my annoying little sister, I wouldn't want it any other way. Got it?"

She climbs out of her blanket and engulfs him in her tiny arms, sobbing, but in a way, it is good. The kind of sobbing that releases all the anxiety inside her tiny heart, the one that has been waiting to be released for what feels like eternity. "Thanks, Jack."

He brushes through her hair, smiles warmly. "Any time, kid."

* * *

_Christmas Day - 21 rio, apartment #100_

He wakes up when he gets a phone call from his ex-girlfriend, the one who had ended it with him about a month into their first year at separate colleges. Something about how the distance was too unbearable. That, and she had fallen in love with another guy.

He had been sullen and angry at the time. Now, he's just confused. He'd gotten over her long, long ago, and he can't actually remember the last time they've had a conversation since their break-up.

For a moment, he stares at his phone, wondering if he's hallucinating—if the number and face attached to it are actually real or if they are just figments of his imagination. He decides to pick up, simply because he's feeling kind and because it's Christmas Day.

He's also assuming she's heard.

He wouldn't put it past her to find out.

"Hello?"

Silence answers him, and he wonders if he really _was_ hallucinating. Or maybe someone's playing a seriously sick prank.

Then her soft voice answers him, so light he almost doesn't hear it. But because he does, he recognizes the lilt immediately, and he's suddenly transferred back to the hormonal and naive age of eighteen, memories of them flooding his mind.

Not that much in terms of 'hormonal' and 'naive' have changed since then, but that is besides the point.

"Hi," she says. "It's—it's me—"

"I know," he says, cutting her off.

As he lies on the couch, his eyes shift to the scrawny Christmas tree that Hiccup had set up a month ago, claiming that Christmas wouldn't be the same without it. Jack had told him it wouldn't have made a difference, as both would be going home to their families for the holiday. Of course, he hadn't known that only one of the two would be able to follow through with that.

Now he's glad it's up since it's just him and Emma in their lonely apartment for the holiday.

Christmas wouldn't feel like Christmas without it. Although, if he's being honest, Christmas doesn't feel like Christmas without _them_. But he's trying really hard not to think that far.

"How are you?"

He rolls his eyes. A dumb question. A starter question. He's not going to answer because she should know, at the least, that he's not okay.

"Why are you calling, Too—" he stops, pauses. He hasn't talked to her in almost two or three years. The nickname so familiar to his tongue now sounds wrong when she is someone he hardly even knows anymore. "Why are you calling, Ana?"

She pauses. Then, "You can still call me 'Tooth', you know."

"Do you still go by 'Tooth'?" He pushes himself up from the futon and runs his fingers through his messy hair.

"Well—no, but that's what you've always called me."

"'Always' doesn't exist anymore, Ana," he says softly. He sighs as he shuffles around until his feet have led him to his room where his sister sleeps. When he peeks his head inside, she is still snuggled under thousands of blankets. He smiles and shuts the door quietly, careful not to wake her up. "It's still early in the morning. Why are you calling?"

"I... I just flew home last night from school, and my parents told me what happened. I had to stay back a week extra to work on a research project, but I just... I wanted to check in with you. Make sure you're okay. Are you... okay?"

"Do you think I'm okay?"

He says it more harshly than he means to. He knows she means well. But all of those '_I'm sorry'_s and '_Are you okay?'s_ are starting to pile into a bunch of words he never wants to hear again. He is constantly wondering why everyone keeps apologizing when they have done nothing wrong, is wondering why everyone asks if he is okay when the answer is as obvious as day.

Do people not have any other words to offer?

He lets out a long breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that. I'm sorry."

"It's... It's okay," she breathes quietly. But he can tell she's squirming on the other line. He doesn't need to see her to know. "I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have called."

Jack lifts his hand, rubs his jaw. "It's fine that you called. It's fine if you want to send me condolences. It's fine. But we're not friends—you know that, right? I don't know what you're expecting out of this call."

"I..." she stops. He can imagine her shutting her eyes, her brows knitting together as she pieces her words, just like she always does. Normally, she's such a chatterbox that people often can't get her to shut up. But she's quiet when she's nervous, unsure of the words she usually has so much confidence in saying. "I know we're not friends... I know that, but am I not allowed to make sure you're doing okay?"

"Of course you can check," he says. "But it's Christmas Day. And as people who are not friends, it's like a personal intrusion when you check up on me on a family holiday, especially when we haven't spoken in almost three years. This isn't your place. You know that. There's a time and a place for everything. Today, right now—it isn't it. Not for you."

He can hear her shift. Then, in a really low voice, "Jack... are you... still mad at me after all these years?"

"I'm not," he says immediately, narrowing his eyes. "I can't believe you'd accuse me of something so ridiculous."

"Then why won't let you let me check up on you? Why won't you let me see if you're okay?"

"Because I'm obviously not okay," he snaps, his words clipping sharply. "And you, of all people—you, who _hasn't_ spoken to me since we broke up—shouldn't be expecting me to spill my guts to you on such a personal matter on such a personal day at seven in the morning. You're crossing a boundary, Ana. Not only that, but you asked me a question that I shouldn't even need to vocally answer because the answer is already given. Why can't you see that what you're imposing on me is just..."

He trails off. Lets out a long sigh. He doesn't want to talk to her anymore. It's Christmas for God's sake, and the last thing he needs is to get into an argument with his ex-girlfriend.

"If you don't need anything else, I'm going to hang up on you."

"I did love you, you know. It was just... the right thing to do," she says. "It was right for us at the time."

"I know," he responds tiredly. "I get it. And I'm glad we broke up. If this is what you wanted to call about—your own personal issue about our break-up, then don't use my parents' death as an excuse to talk about it. I'm going to hang up now, Ana."

"In addition to your parents' death, please don't be mad at me for what happened—"

"Ana, I like someone else," he blurts, cutting her off. He blinks suddenly, his eyes widening just slightly. The words had tumbled out of his mouth before he had the chance to think about them. Now he doesn't know if he had said it just to shut her up or said it because it was actually true?

He hasn't admitted that to anyone, even, hardly himself. He hadn't even admitted it when his little sister had called him out.

Did he... _Did_ he like Rapunzel? Amidst everything, did he really like her and was he just scared to admit it? Or, he wonders, did he just like her because she happened to be exactly what he needed at exactly the right moment?

He shuts his eyes, can envision her bright ones, the way they shine with a sheen of wariness but also twinkle with a kindness and a warmth he adores. And the way... the way she _treats_ him. The way she treats his sister. She doesn't tip-toe around them, but doesn't push her way in either. Instead, she is caring and direct and well... herself.

In a cold and dark world, she emanates a warmth that he wants to follow forever.

He smiles slightly, the corner of his lips twitching. He doesn't know if the way he likes her is the right way of liking her, but he does know that he _does, _that her minuscule presence in his life is, in fact, really special.

"I like someone else," he repeats in a low voice, but each word solid with confirmation.

Ana is quiet. After a minute or so, he wonders if she is still there but doesn't say anything as he waits for her to gather her words.

"You do?" she says finally. The tone of her voice changes to one of confusion, and her next words shift into the in-between of a statement and a question. "You like someone else."

"I do," he breathes, nodding. He doesn't know why. He knows she can't see him. "So please stop worrying about our break-up from years ago. It's not anything to worry about."

"Okay," she says meekly after a moment. Then, "I'm sorry, Jack. About everything. About... about your parents."

"Thanks," he mumbles. Though he wants to tell her that she shouldn't be sorry for something she hasn't done. But he doesn't because he is afraid she will drag the conversation longer than he wants.

"And Merry Christmas, Jack."

"Merry Christmas, Ana."

* * *

_21:00 the same day_

He doesn't cry throughout the day. His sister tells him he's weird—that he should be crying because it's their first Christmas without them. But the days between their death and this forsaken holiday have merged into long hours with no set limit to mark alongside a calendar.

He's really not the type to cry.

He just doesn't know how.

So even though his sister tells him he's weird, he just smiles softly and does his best to propel their day forward until this holiday has passed over. They don't deal with gifts or decorations or anything of that sort, and instead, pretend that the Christmas tree Hiccup had set up is enough. They both know it isn't, but glad it is there to serve as a reminder that it is, in fact, a holiday.

They spend their day in the apartment, more somber than any Christmas he's ever had before. It is like a second funeral, another reminder that their parents have gone and left them to fend this typically jolly holiday for themselves.

When Jack sets their dinner on the table, Emma stares at it, her eyes drifting as she pokes the food with her fork.

"What is it?" he asks, his palms pressed against the table.

She lifts her head, and their eyes meet. Her lips are trembling, and her eyes are brushed over with tears that have been teetering to fall every couple of hours. His face softens, and he makes a motion to sit beside her at the kitchen table.

They sit silently, as Emma wills herself not to cry, struggling to keep it in. He can see it in the way her shoulders hunch over, in the way her fingers tense around the silver fork, and the way she keeps biting her lip—as if biting her lip will stop tears from falling.

His fingers dance against the wooden table in rhythmic order. He knows she wants to cry because she can't help but... miss them. Every hour. Every second. And this holiday is just a reminder of what they don't have.

So he does what he does best—avoid talking about their death.

Instead, their life.

"Remember when Mom bought that ridiculous light up snowman?" Jack asks after a moment. He laughs softly to himself when he thinks of the towering statue she had brought home for Christmas, can remember the way she bust open the backdoor with an oversize snowman in her arms, claiming that it would be a nice edition to brighten their house for the holidays. "It would light up every time someone walked by it and sing 'Happy Holidays'... Man, it was _so_ freaking annoying. It got to the point where two different people would walk by it, and it would restart its song in the middle of what it was already singing! I was ready to throw it out the window and never see it again. Good thing it broke before I did."

Emma starts to cry—all the tears she had been holding in suddenly falls in waves. But she also laughs through her tears, and he's glad to see his little sister smile. "She loved that stupid thing. It was _so_ annoying though."

He leans back in his chair, eyes shifting to the ceiling as he recalls the dingy statue with blinking, bright lights. "I remember just staring at it, wondering what were the possible ways to kill it without Mom figuring out I did it."

"Confession—I actually... I broke it," Emma whispers before giggling.

"No way," he says, turning to her with wide eyes.

"It was the winter that you just started college, and I just... I took a cup of water and started logging parts of the machine. Used a screwdriver to unscrew bits here and there. I mean it wasn't _all _my fault—Dad put me up to it! He was ready to throw it against the wall. I think Mom looked a little relieved when she found out it was broken though. She probably hated it just as much as we did but didn't want to admit that," Emma laughs.

Jack whistles. "Man. Maybe my bad habits transferred over to you in the end."

Emma smiles before sobering up, poking her food with her fork. "I miss... them. I miss them _a lot_. It's not... Christmas is not the same without them. And... I miss her food, and her laugh, miss Dad's laugh, miss... everything." Her voice breaks, and she looks up to meet his eyes, and alarm flashes through it. "It's not that I don't... don't appreciate having you to celebrate it with though. I just... I just wish it could happen with them too."

He smiles tenderly, hand reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Me too. I miss them too. Nothing is ever going to be the same without them."

She narrows her eyes and rolls them. "I can't believe you haven't cried once today. You unemotional freak." She says this lovingly, so he only laughs.

He leans forward on the kitchen table. "I don't know. I'll cry when I'm ready. I think... I'm still a little emotionally behind. It's just... a little surreal right now, you know? I don't think..." he sighs and stops, shakes his head. He doesn't know what he thinks or doesn't think, just knows his heart and his head are too heavy and hard to understand everything going on around them, not ready to spill their tears out, not ready to believe... to believe that he is now an adult orphan taking care of his little sister.

He's not ready.

And if he cries, that means he has to admit it's true.

And he's not ready to do that.

He changes the subject, "Tooth called this morning."

Emma lifts her head in surprise, eyes widening. "Tooth? Your ex-girlfriend? From… high school?" She thinks back and counts the years… She was about nine then. Wow. She remembers Tooth—pretty hair colors and a bright personality. But she can't remember much else other than that she was loud. Very loud.

But nice, if she remembers correctly.

He nods. "Yeah. Her parents told her about... you know."

"Oh..." She fiddles with her food a little bit more than asks curiously, "What did you say? Why did she call you _today_ of all days?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. The conversation was kind of a blur, to be honest. But... I told her I liked Rapunzel. I didn't mention her name, but... generally, that there was someone I cared about."

Emma grins wickedly, arms crossing. "I _knew_ it."

He rolls his eyes. "It just... it just came out. I didn't even mean to say it."

"I _knew_ you liked her. I _knew _it! I called it from the moment she took us home from the…" she trails off and doesn't finish. "I _knew_ it."

"Well, it's not like I really liked her _then_," Jack argues. "She was just… just being really nice then. I don't know. It was more like the totality of that night… I mean, I don't know if _liking_ is even the right word—I just… can't get her out of my mind—"

"You _like_ her," she sings, laughing.

"Yeah, rub it in, will you," he grumbles. He lets out a long sigh, and tilts himself back in his seat, cradles his head with the palm of his hands. "Why—_why _am I even telling you this? You're only twelve, and you're my—_my little sister_. Well, either way, nothing's going to happen. I'm not... I want to make sure... I just want to make sure what I'm feeling is _right_. With Mom and Dad... it feels wrong to be worrying about something as dumb as lust."

Emma's smile fades, and she nods slowly, her eyes shifting up as she processes what he says.

She wonders why it is that he is obviously suffering so much, shouldering on so much responsibility and guilt for something that is not even his fault. Does he not see that he is obviously hurting too? That in trying to make sure she has nothing to worry about, that he is, in the end, making her worry? Then suddenly, she climbs out of her seat and engulfs him in a hug.

It catches him off guard, and he stills suddenly, unsure of where her sisterly affection has stemmed from.

"What is this for?" he laughs, but the tone of his voice turns to that of worry when he realizes that she has buried herself in his shoulder only to cry. "Did I say something wrong?"

She shakes her head.

Then after a moment,

"Can you try," she mumbles into his shoulder, her voice a little broken, "can you try to at least get to know Punz? If you like her, even if just a little, can you try to... to get to know her? And not see her as... as something to feel guilty about?" She leans back and wipes her eyes, smiling crookedly. "I just... I want you to be happy. Just as much as you keep trying to make sure everything goes okay for me, just the same way that you want to make me happy, just the same way that you want to be the best big brother to me... I want that for you too."

Jack is stunned to silence. She has caught on to his unspoken sadness, and he realizes that he'd be dumb to think she couldn't or wouldn't. He does like Rapunzel. But he is, more than anything, extremely scared to take advantage of a nice girl who feels sorry for him. He's scared of liking her for the wrong reasons, scared of liking her only because she is nice, and he _needs_ nice. Scared of... of finding out that he doesn't like her in the end and having to ultimately hurt her.

Scared that the situation is wrong. Maybe if it were weeks before or months or years after... Maybe if she hadn't been the one to drive him to the scene of their death... Maybe if... Maybe lots of things. Maybe if everything.

He doesn't want to hurt her.

"Jack," she says softly when he doesn't respond, "It's okay to be happy, you know. Don't be guilty for being happy."

He lifts his head.

Is that what it is?

That he feels guilty for... for having an attempt at happiness when everything else around him is crashing to the ground?

Then he wonders why his little sister has so much wisdom in such a young and naive brain.

Finally, he grins slowly, meeting her eyes. Maybe he can try. Maybe he should try, at the least, to see what happiness could feel like. Maybe not now. But soon. Eventually.

"Thanks, kid. I mean it."

He doesn't say anything more.

He doesn't need to.

* * *

_Two weeks after December 21st_

When the porcelain cup falls between her fingers, she curses under her breath and winces when the glass hits the tile, splattering into an array of white and pink shards. She doesn't know why she's been feeling so clumsy as of late. Merida has been starting to call her "Butterfingers," which had _never_ been a problem before.

She had always been the neat and organized and careful one. The one to do all the dishes without a single mistake and clean the bathroom without a complaint—so why, _why_ was she dropping everything in sight?

She sighs as she goes to grab the broom and the dustpan to sweep up the mess spilled across the kitchen floor. Her thoughts have been in disarray lately, and she doesn't really understand why. She's dropped more silverware and cups and plates than she can count on both hands within the past two weeks, and it's beginning to drive her insane.

"Again?" Merida asks with wide eyes as she waltzes into the kitchen, a cell phone pressed against her cheek. She shakes her head and laughs in response to the person on the other line, and Rapunzel watches as the freckles on her face move along to the motion of her body—"It's nothing. Punzie dropped a cup. She's been a little clumsy as of late."

Merida brings out the trashcan for her as she listens to the other person. It's probably Hiccup. It's _always_ Hiccup.

The ginger waggles her eyebrows as she continues to coo, "It's probably because of a certain roommate of yours, Hic… The one with white hair, and all that nonsense—"

"Merida," Rapunzel hisses as she swats her away from the kitchen, her face feeling extremely hot. It was _not_ because of Jack. She didn't see Jack like that, didn't _want _to see him as someone to have a petty crush on. He didn't deserve that. No one deserved that. "Shush. Go away."

Her roommate laughs, snorting as she squeezes her friend's hand with comfort. Her eyes twinkle with kindness before she slouches out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Rapunzel's fingers clench around the broom, watches as her knuckles go white.

Was it…?

She stares at the calendar hanging on their fridge.

It's been… two weeks. Two weeks since their death. Two weeks since he had crashed on her futon. Two weeks since… well, since everything. A blurry image of his pale face and white hair clouds her mind, and she shakes her head with the thought, a frown tipping down her lips.

It's not supposed to be like this. She did not exist only to shoulder on his weight and save his life. She did not exist to pretend to be his savior from sadness.

She closes her eyes, the wrinkles surrounding them tightening as her expression sobers. But… was it so wrong to want to get to get to _know_ him? Him _and_ his sadness? Everything about him?

Was it wrong to want to mourn for him and his life and his parents' life? Was it wrong to want to be a part of that? To understand that?

She sighs. She doesn't really know.

What happens next stems from an impulse she didn't realize she ever had, and her body moves on its own. Before she knows it, her keys are in her hand, and she is out the door.

* * *

_21 minutes later_

Rapunzel's not sure how she finds herself stumbling across dead grass in the middle of the night. She's pretty sure, in fact, that most sane people do not visit graveyards past midnight for fear of grave robbers or, more paranormally, ghosts and spirits and the sort. She laughs inwardly to herself as she trips over a branch, pulls her coat closer as a shiver runs down her spine—maybe she is mentally and literally insane. That must be it.

Who else would visit a grave this late at night?

And moreover, who visits a grave of someone who is in no relation to her? Especially of a person she hasn't seen or spoken to in weeks?

When she finds what she's looking for, she stops and tightens her scarf so that it is snuggled under her chin. If she looks closely into the dark sky, she can even see the way her breath talks against the wind. Her eyes shift down as she sees his familiar family name etched into the marble slab of stone, and before she realizes what her body is doing, she crouches and kneels before it, her gloved fingers reaching out to trace the name she fondly recognizes.

"Hi," she says, her voice faint. She smiles. "I don't think we've ever met. I was at your funeral though."

She closes her eyes and knows no one will respond but is happy to hear and feel the chilly wind echo back in her ears. She pretends it's them, and that is as good a response as any.

She cradles her chin between her knees, her hands resting upon both patellas. "My name is Rapunzel. I'm..." she pauses, wants to tell them she's a friend of Jack's but knows that's reaching, so she doesn't. She decides to stop halfway in-between, "a friend."

A friend of whose, she doesn't say. Just a friend. Maybe even theirs.

"I don't know why I'm here, to be honest," she laughs darkly to herself, can feel her cheeks swell with the cold and her eyes both wary and weary in the way that they are beginning to feel like weights upon her face. "I haven't even spoken to Jack in a while, but... I hope he's doing okay. He's a good guy. And your daughter is... well, she's pretty spectacular too. I hope... I only wish them the best in all that they do, and I know they'll do a lot. I'm sure you're so proud of them, I..."

The weights she once felt on her lids seem to suddenly be dripping down her skin. God... God, is she crying? She lifts her gloved hands to her face and feels slicked cheeks and wet eyes, and is so confused because... she doesn't even have a reason to cry.

"Oh, God. I'm so sorry. I don't even know why I'm crying. I don't even—I don't even know you guys! I guess... I guess I feel sad, for Jack and for Emma. I don't know. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Rough wind brushes against her body, and she feels the need to pull her coat closer. It's a sign, she can't help but think. Maybe it's silly for her to believe that, but she wants to believe it. She feels as if it's almost comforting, knowing that they're welcoming her tears.

"Thanks. Thanks for... for letting me mourn even though I have no reason to."

She shifts her body around, feels the dirt painting itself across her warm clothes.

"I want to… I want to get to know your son. If before the accident, if years after—it wouldn't have mattered _when_. I just… do. So now that it's… inconveniently _now… _does that make me selfish?"

She closes her eyes. Waits for the wind, waits for twigs cracking, or even birds chirping. Waits for _something_, a sign to tell her whether or not it's wrong to want to understand a person she doesn't deserve to understand.

Nothing answers her. She hadn't really expected anything to, so that's okay.

She wonders if she'll be confused forever.

She stays there for a while; she's not quite sure how long. Just knows that soon enough, her cheeks have dried with the cold air, evaporating to the heavens above. She closes her eyes, even believes she could sleep here if she wanted to.

She doesn't.

But that's not the point.

"Rapunzel?"

Her eyes flicker open immediately, and she almost screams. But she stops herself before she can when she recognizes his well-worn sneakers. When she lifts her head to meet his gaze, she's not sure who's more surprised—him or her. She can't help but think that he wasn't the one who had been almost scared shitless though, and that, at the least, his face doesn't have the after effect of someone who was about to pee in their pants.

He crouches next to her, but he doesn't sit down. His face scrunches in confusion, and without a second thought, unravels his coat and dumps it around her body. She hadn't even realized she'd been shivering. How long had she even been there?

"What on earth are you—" he stops and shakes his head before saying, "It's almost four AM. I hope you know that."

Four hours. She had sat, crying her eyes out in front of his parents' grave for almost four hours.

She was right. She was insane.

"Am I allowed to ask what you're doing here?" he asks softly as he buttons his jacket around her and shifts her scarf around so that it is once again covering skin. She hadn't realized it had fallen halfway off. Had she fallen asleep and not realized it?

She manages to find her voice after a couple of seconds. "If you answer why you're here."

He smiles wryly. "I think I can be given justice for visiting my own parents' grave."

"Why at four in the morning?"

He shrugs. "Because then I don't have to worry about Emma or Hic worrying. They do that a lot. But they're fast asleep now." He lifts a brow. "Now, what are _you_ doing here at four in the morning?"

She doesn't really have a reason. And she tells him. "I don't know. I just... I drove. And I got out of my car. And here I am." She can feel the shift in her eyebrows as her face tightens. "I know—that sounds dumb and irresponsible and unbelievable, but... but it's true. It just kind of... happened."

He narrows his eyes, and she watches as they follow the lines of her face. "Were you... were you crying?"

Rapunzel turns away immediately, and though she does not say anything aloud, she knows he understands the answer anyway. Then, "Sorry. I don't... I don't really deserve to mourn them like that."

"Why would you say that? That's dumb," he says, his voice clipped. "A wise person once said... _You _once said that you don't have to know them to mourn them, right? Mourn them all you want. They... deserve good people to mourn their death."

She doesn't respond. She doesn't respond mainly because she's surprised he remembers such minuscule words. Then, "Will you tell me about them?"

Jack's face goes stiff. She can see the way all of his features harden, each set with a barrier she's unsure he's willing to allow fall. She finds herself wanting his features to change, to soften around the edges—she doesn't like looking at such a cold face and opens her mouth to change her question.

"You don't have to," she says this time. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to talk about."

He shakes his head slowly but remains quiet. Then, "Let's go somewhere."

"Go somewhere?"

He turns to her, his eyes crinkling. "Yeah. You're shivering. Let's go somewhere a little more warm."

"Oh—okay."

"I'll tell you about them," he says after helping her off the ground. He says this warmly. He says this with a smile. She's surprised to see the sun set into his features, but she's glad. "Let's go somewhere warm, and I'll tell you about them."

She finds herself smiling. "Okay."


End file.
